The Baker Street Tragedy
by MoriartyandHisTardis
Summary: John and Sherlock are the same as they have always been. Right? So why is John suddenly thinking Sherlock is handsome? Eventual Johnlock with some huge twists and turns before they can reach happiness. Rated K plus because I'm paranoid.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock twirled John's abandoned pistol between his long fingers, trying to rid his mind of any unnecessary thoughts. Vaguely he heard John complain about there being no milk and the gentle thud of the front door. Milk wasn't important to Sherlock, he simply deleted it. He drank his tea without milk anyway. He was trying to enter his mind palace, the place where his thoughts presented themselves as a chaptered book that after a short glance told Sherlock exactly where he needed to look. He couldn't do it today and he wasn't sure why.

"John, do you ever need something really badly but can't get it?" He asked before remembering John had already gone out. So he was surprised when John's voice came from in front of him. "No. Why do you ask Sherlock?"

"Just a question."

Now that John was back maybe he would be able to figure something out. He was missing something, overlooking it completely.

"John."

"Yes."

"Have you ever bought a woman a ring?"

"What- Why would.. If you're trying to ask me something.."

"No, have you ever bought a woman a ring outside of proposing?"

"I don't think so, why?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, jumping from the sofa. He began pacing around the room with his hands clasped together.

"The corpse, she was wearing a ring. Expensive by the look of it, could have contained a diamond and could have had a high gold percentage. It wasn't on her wedding finger but judging from the clothes she wears and the style of her home she wouldn't go for a tacky sort of ring like that. Yet when the ring was removed you could see a slight colour difference in the skin-she never took it off. It was clearly given to her by someone she cares abou-"

"Where are you going with this Sherlock?"

"There was some sort of poisionous substance on the ring that would slowly infect her, getting into her blood stream. The man she was 'dating' must have been wearing gloves when he gave her the ring. There are only a handful of shops that would sell that style of ring. Call Lestrade tell him to check all the expensive jewellers." With that Sherlock flounced out of the room, his dressing gown whipping behind him. John looked half confused and sighed before sinking down into his armchair. He pulled his phone out and dialled Lestrade explaining to him, in a lot less detail, Sherlock's theory.

John hung up the phone and settled back in his arm chair, almost relaxed enough to fall asleep when, "Come on John, we're going out."

Sherlock had materialised wearing his signature coat and purple buttoned shirt. John heaved himself off the armchair knocking his tea over in the process. He groaned and bent down to pick it up.

"No time." Insisted Sherlock, pulling on his scarf.

"Bu-"

"Let Mrs Hudson clean it up."

"She's our landlady!"

"Cleaning up is one of her jobs, isn't it?" Sherlock replied looking at John with a confused expression on his face before spinning round and walking straight out of the door. John grabbed his military jacket and followed Sherlock, half jogging downstairs and out of the front door.

The stars were very bright out that night but it was freezing cold. John shuddered into his jacket, inwardly cursing his flatmate. "Sherlock, remind me again why we have to walk."

"I'm thinking John; I can't think properly in a taxi with someone wittering on at me."

John just grumbled to himself but then Sherlock continued with "Exercise is good for people. It's healthy."

"Are you calling me unhealthy?" John replied, a hint of venom lacing his voice. Sherlock stopped and turned to John bemused, "Of course not, you're very healthy and in perfect shape." He swiftly began walking again followed by John who was blushing for some reason.

Did Sherlock just compliment me, John pondered as they strolled along the London pavements. Before he had time to really consider the idea Sherlock had stopped and stepped sideways into a building. John followed his lead, sneaking through a maze of corridors till they found Molly.

"Ah, Molly," Sherlock said, "Just the person I need."

"What can I do, I mean what do you need from me? Why-"

"I need to borrow your microscope."

"Oh, um of course, yes, um. This way."

"I know where it is Molly, I have been here before."

"Uh, yes." She replied, looking visibly hurt at Sherlock's blunt reply. The 'amateur detective' sauntered off, leaving John with Molly.

"Do you want a cuppa?" He asked.

"Yes, that would be lovely." She replied, her face lighting up in a smile. They wandered down to the hospital café, idly chatting about work, cases, Sherlock and how they were feeling. John had just sunk into one of the seats with a mug of tea encased in his hands when Sherlock strolled through the doors.

"John, we're leaving."

"Already?" Molly replied, trying and failing to hide her disappointment.

"Yes, come on John."

"But Sherlock my tea."

"John, we have to go."

"Why?"

"Because I have finished what I need to research."

"What were you researching?" Molly asked, gazing intently at Sherlock.

"What sugar looked like under a microscope." Sherlock replied, flipping up his collar. John looked as if he would have a fit.

"You mean you dragged me all the way here to see how sugar looked under a microscope."

"Yes." Sherlock answered, looking as if it was the most normal thing in the world to trek across London for that meagre experiment.

"You could have done that at Baker Street!" John exclaimed.

"Of Course I could, but like I say, exercise is good for you."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I just want to say a quick thankyou to my great friend Rhianna for proof reading this for me. I know it's called the Baker Street tragedy and so far the only tragedy has been my writing skills… But I assure you that there shall be more upsetting things in the future… **

**For now, on with the story.**

John clambered out from his now boiling covers and pulled on a pair of jeans and woollen jumper. He opened the bedroom door and was hit with a disgusting smell.

"Sherlock.." He grumbled under his breath, "What are you doing?" He asked his handsome flatmate. John stopped halfway out of his room thinking to himself, _did I just call Sherlock handsome? _He guessed that Sherlock was, if you were into that sort of thing, which he definitely wasn't. The man's high cheekbones and dark curls could cause some girls to go wild. He certainly attracted Molly. But Sherlock wasn't into that sort of thing, he was 'married to his work'. The work that was at the moment overflowing onto the counter.

"Do I even want to know what that it is?" John asked, approaching Sherlock who was trying to scoop up some of the sticky orange liquid.

"It's a simple enough experiment John, I'm just testing some reactions."

"So that's what the smell is."

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to a freshly made brew on the table. It was just the way John liked it.

"How did you know?"

"Just because you always make the tea, doesn't mean I don't observe how you like yours."

"Well, thank you then." John replied, thoroughly confused, but slightly happy at the prospect of Sherlock making tea for him. The shorter flatmate settled down into his armchair, picking up the newspaper and scanning it as he sipped his tea.

Sherlock chuckled under his breath in the kitchen as John began to drink. The younger man had been doing something else at the hospital last night but had simply made up a lie to pacify John. Now here was his experiment, rather like what he did at Baskerville but remarkably different. The orangey substance that was seeping down the side had been a distraction allowing Sherlock to slip an experimental sugar cube into John's tea. Hopefully the sugar would make him more prone to express his true feelings and thoughts. Sherlock decided that Mycroft would probably love to use this sort of thing against criminals but Sherlock would refuse to give it to him. When Sherlock had said he was looking at sugar under a microscope, he wasn't lying as such, just stretching the truth into something a little less harmful. If John knew about the experiment it would ruin it, wasting all of Sherlock's time.

John finished the tea and leant back into the armchair. He folded the newspaper and placed it down on the coffee table, shutting his eyes. Within seconds he was asleep. Sherlock wandered over to John and watched him sleep. The shorter man's eyelids were flickering and he began to twist around. Sherlock leant right into John's face, his breath creating goose bumps on John's cheek. The breath on his cheek awoke John and as soon as he opened his eyes Sherlock's indescribably blue ones were boring into him. Sherlock turned away stalking back into the kitchen leaving John to let out a breath he hadn't even realised he had been holding.

The experiment was working properly thought Sherlock as he made John another cup of tea, adding two cubes of sugar this time. He walked back to John who was still rigidly staring at the place where minutes ago Sherlock's eyes had been. The taller man placed the tea on the table with a thud causing John to turn towards Sherlock, looking startled.

"Thank you" John said.

"Drink." Sherlock ordered, watching John take a sip of the tea and visibly relax. The detective was about to walk off and clear up the mess he had made of the kitchen table when he felt a hand on his arm.

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Put your face so close to mine that I could smell your delicious scent."

"My delicious scent?" Sherlock replied, puzzled.

John was shocked. He didn't realise he had said that out loud. Sherlock was waiting for an answer, Sherlock with his high cheekbones and his rumpled curly hair that caught the light in all the right ways. _What was he saying? _Then he realised he had been staring at his taller flatmate the whole time.

"John?" Sherlock asked, looking confused.

"I'm not Gay, Sherlock!" John yelled, storming out of the room.

Sherlock ruffled his hair, slightly puzzled. Why did John have an outburst like that? Sherlock hadn't inquired about his sexuality anyway. He came to the logical conclusion that it had been the sugar talking. Or rather the sugar making John talk. Clearly the experiment was working. That made Sherlock happy for obvious reasons but the fact that John had been staring at him, drinking in his whole appearance had made his ego a touch bigger than it usually was. He had never been the centre of anyone's affections before. Well except Molly but she didn't really count as Sherlock knew she didn't really love him. It was just an obsession.

Sherlock found himself inexplicably blushing at the thought of the short but sturdy doctor having feelings towards him. He felt something like a flutter in his stomach. He quenched it however remembering it was just an experiment anyway and the Holmes family did better without caring for anyone.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I am so, so sorry for not updating sooner. I was in a show and I have been rehearsing like a crazy person ALL the time.**

John groaned into his pillow, thoroughly embarrassed. His cheeks were flushed bright red with shame. Why did he do that? What was the point of yelling at Sherlock that he wasn't gay? What good would that do? Now Sherlock almost definitely will think he's gay.

Pull yourself together, John scolded himself. You 'fought' in a war in bloody Afghanistan for Gods sake. If you could do that then you can surely crush whatever this is that you're feeling. Even if you were gay, Sherlock isn't interested in a relationship, the doctor told himself, standing up and stretching.

It was time for him to re-emerge. He wouldn't say anything about the outburst he decided as he walked into the kitchen. Much to his surprise he saw another freshly brewed tea on the side.

"What was that John?"

"What was what?" the army doctor replied, picking up the tea and sitting down in his armchair.

"When you shouted about not being gay. What brought that on?"

"I don't really know." John replied, trying and failing to stop himself blushing. He, of course, did know, he just didn't want to share it with Sherlock. He found that he was still talking anyway. He was telling Sherlock all about his feelings. It was like word vomit. He clamped his hand over his mouth, grabbed his jacket and charged straight out of the flat, having no idea what on earth he had just told Sherlock.

The younger flatmate had listened with rapt attention to what John was saying and was thoroughly disappointed when the shorter man clamped his hand over his mouth and left. Sherlock tried to catalogue everything John had said, starting from the beginning.

"I don't really know… well I do know. It's just the fact that you're always staring at me and I don't know why but it makes me feel uncomfortable somehow. Your cheekbones and fecking gorgeous you know. Wow, I mean just look at your hair and your body. I'd love to see you-" That was when he had cut off, with a surprised expression on his face.

The dark haired man found himself feeling very...flattered at what John was saying, but he also felt something else. It was that flutter in his stomach again. He though back over what John had said. John wanted to see him... naked, he presumed, would be how the sentence would have ended. Sherlock didn't know whether to feel happy or creeped out. His flatmate wanted to see him naked and had been complimenting his body. His best friend thought he was gorgeous.

John thought he was gorgeous.

John.

_John…._

Sherlock slapped himself round the face, cursing. He couldn't get distracted from the case or the experiment. It was just an experiment, it was all an experiment. He didn't feel love. Sherlock Holmes never loved anybody, not even his own mother. He had never in his life felt this emotion towards anyone. _Except John._

No, Sherlock refused to feel like this. He didn't want to love John; he wanted things to be normal again.

John is straight anyway, he said to himself. John is straight. John is **straight**.

Sherlock wandered over to the sofa and grabbed a nicotine patch. He curled up on his side, wrapping his dressing gown around his body. He heard John open the door and stomp up the stairs to the flat. The taller man decided to leave the doctor alone as from the sound of his footfalls he could tell the shorter man was in a serious mood about something.

John flung the door to 221B open, clambering up the stairs to the flat. He didn't want to talk to Sherlock. He didn't want to talk to anybody. He was too embarrassed. What was wrong with him? Everything. Or maybe nothing… he wasn't sure. As he walked past the detective curled up on the sofa he was struck with a pang of protectiveness that nearly broke his heart. Sherlock looked like a child and John just wanted to hug him tightly and keep his flatmate safe and sound. Overcome by emotion John sank to the floor, whacking his head on the table in the process. The last thing he registered was Sherlock's surprised expression before he slipped into darkness.

**AN: Ooooh what will happen to John? Reviews would be really appreciated:) **

**I'll try and update sooner next time.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello again. This chapter is mostly just a filler because I need to add some extra stuff in before I can get to the main part of the story. Hope you enjoy.**

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><p>Sherlock heard the thump of Johns head hitting the table and turned, flipping himself off the sofa in one fluid motion. The dark haired man ran over to his flatmate who was unconscious, slumped awkwardly on the floor. Sherlock reached for the phone and was about to dial for an ambulance when the blond haired man grasped onto his arm and woke up slowly, eyelids flickering.<p>

"Sh-sherlock." John croaked, clutching his head.

"Are you okay, John?" the detective asked, concern lacing his tone.

"Headache." John replied bluntly, standing up. Immediately he half-fell and was caught in Sherlock's surprisingly strong arms. They both stumbled into John's room, the shorter man collapsing on the unmade bad. Sherlock left him there, dashing into the bathroom to get some paracetamol. He returned to the room, bringing with him the tablets and a glass of water. John quickly swallowed the tablets and settled back into his pillow drifting off to sleep. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, just watching John sleep for a while. He then drifted off back to the living room and began to quietly play the violin. He heard the sound of footfalls behind him and turned to see John standing there, staring at Sherlock in awe. The taller man was about to put the violin away when John whispered "Finish the song."

Sherlock obeyed, playing every twist and turn of the song, every note raising the hair on the back of John's neck. Finally as the melody came to a climax, Sherlock dropped the bow, leaving the last note to hang in the air around them. John was speechless. Sherlock smiled at John and took a step towards him "Feeling better?" he asked.

"Yeah, much better."

"Good." Sherlock replied, wandering into the kitchen "Want some tea?"

"Please." John replied, sinking into his armchair. Sherlock bustled around the kitchen making the tea and adding the sugar cubes as always.

"I'm going out." Sherlock said to John, as he placed the tea down next to him.

"Where?"

"Scotland Yard."

"Do you need me to come with you?"

Sherlock bent over so that his face was near Johns. "You just collapsed, you're not going anywhere."

"Bu-"

"No John, I don't want you injuring yourself again."

"Okay." The shorter man replied, defeated by Sherlock's logic.

"I won't be long." The raven haired man said as he sauntered out of the flat. John heard his friend's baritone voice yell for a taxi.

John sighed, drinking his tea. He pulled his laptop out from under his chair and opened his blog. Slowly he began typing. After half an hour had passed he had typed a sufficiently long enough post and submitted it. He heard Sherlock return to the flat and assumed from the detective's footfalls he was angry about something.

"They won't let me on the case, John." Sherlock angrily grumbled, throwing what looked like a bag of fingers onto the side.

"Why have you got fingers Sherlock?"

"They are for an experiment John." The detective replied, heading over to his microscope.

"I'm off to bed. Make sure to eat and sleep." The army doctor said.

Sherlock happily continued with his finger experiment, thinking every so often about John. He was so glad that the doctor was okay. What would he do without his John? Who would look after him and keep him safe? He left the fingers and sat on his chair, pondering the day's events.

He remembered the uncomfortable twist in his stomach when John had collapsed and the relief that had flooded his whole body when John was okay. He thought of John standing there listening to him play, face alight with awe and something else… protectiveness… _love?_ Sherlock heard John's husky whisper "Finish the song." echoing around his head. He could almost feel John's arm over his shoulder as he remembered helping him to the bedroom.

That was when it struck Sherlock.

He was in love with Doctor John Hamish Watson.

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><p>Sherlock's attitude towards John only changed a tiny bit. He now couldn't deny loving him, not when nearly all of his thoughts concerned John. Sherlock would stand a little closer to John on a case, listen to him with a little more attention, ask his opinion and touch him more often.<p>

He wouldn't grope him or something stupid, just touch John's arm softly every now and again. He just needed to feel John beside him, even if the feelings weren't mutual.

So then when they were on Moriarty's trail Sherlock tried to protect John and keep him safe. He needed to look after him because John kept collapsing and neither of them knew why. Sherlock convinced John to go and see a doctor, even though he was one himself and should know exactly what the problem was. Then they hit the snag. The big problem. The final problem.

Reichenbach.


	5. Chapter 5

__**AN: Thankyou to CowMow who reviewed the last story, also thankyou to all of you who added this as a favourite story or put it on alert:D It makes me feel really happy when I open my little inbox and find nice messages:) This chapter is quite a filler chapter but it is just describing how JOhn is feeling about life without Sherlock. Without further ad, on with the story!  
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><p><em>It's been 6 months since you died Sherlock. I'm so alone. The flat feels so big and empty without you. Lestrade has been giving me some cases, I'm trying to be good like you, but no-one could ever be as good as you were. You were brilliant Sherlock, you were amazing and I care about you so much. You can't be dead. It's not possible. You will come back to me; I know you will because you won't let me suffer. Just that tiny miracle of not being dead would be much appreciated. Please Sherlock, I need you. I love you. <em>

John left the note by Sherlocks grave. He stroked the black marble headstone before limping slowly back to the road. He had realised how he felt for Sherlock the day after he had died. He was in love with Sherlock, he needed him and he didn't know how he could cope without him. He hadn't ever realised he was in love with the raven haired detective because he didn't know it was possible. He couldn't understand how anyone could love the insufferable bastard but apparently he loved him.

Mycroft tried to convince him to forget about Sherlock and start living his life again. Lestrade wanted him to help with cases because he knew that John could be great if he tried. Mrs Hudson wanted John to help her clear out all of Sherlocks things. Molly wanted to meet up with John and talk about Sherlock. Harry wanted him to stop moping and get his job back.

John wanted to do nothing.

He wanted to sit around at the flat and stare at the bullet-marked wall thinking about the detective, his best friend. The man he loved.

So that was what he did. His only routine for the first few weeks was get up, eat, drink tea, sit in his armchair, eat, drink some more tea then go to bed. Oh and collapse.

It was more frequent now but he didn't go see a doctor. He didn't need to. What was the point of getting better if you had nothing to live for?

After about 2 months it got a little better. He started his blog again and went to see his therapist. He went to visit Sherlock's grave and that nearly broke him again. _Nearly. _

When 3 months had passed John got his job back. He threw himself into his work more vigorously, vowing that no-one else would die like Sherlock had.

At the start of the fourth month Mycroft visited John to talk about Sherlock's will. Apparently he had left a small fortune with John and Mrs Hudson. Surprisingly he had left some money for Lestrade as well. The doctor refused the money, insisting that Sherlock would need it.

John knew Sherlock would come back. He was still in denial.

Halfway through the fifth month Lestrade called and asked him on a case. They needed a doctor to determine the cause of death and John was the only person he knew that was good enough. When he arrived at the scene he figured out how she had been killed almost as quickly as Sherlock would. He looked at the little details and tried to piece them together, how Sherlock would've done it. From then on he regularly helped Lestrade with cases but unlike the dark haired detective he asked for payment. He didn't make much at the surgery and had to keep on top of the rent for 221B.

Slowly but surely John was improving. He stopped seeing his therapist and continued with his blog, making sure to keep the readers updated with the cases he was working on.

The collapsing didn't stop though and John still hadn't been to see a doctor. He could nearly control it. _Nearly. _The word that described his life at the moment. He was nearly as good as Sherlock. He was nearly back to normal. He was nearly happy.

He was never fully there. Never fully anywhere. Always mostly or nearly. He would never be as good as his former flatmate. He could never live up to Sherlock's memory. Even in death Sherlock was too good for him.

So by the time Sherlock had been dead 6 months John's life had slowly rebuilt itself. The only puzzle piece that was missing was a handsome consulting detective, with cheekbones worthy of a Greek god and the darkest hair like ravens wings. Nothing could fill that hole in John's heart. He would always be alone, a step out of sync from everyone else in the world. The world that was still spinning, even though surely it should've stopped by now. There was no Sherlock and he was what kept the world going for John.

There was no more chuckling at the crime scenes. No more smug grins when he solved a case. No more coat, swishing out to the side as he walked. No more dressing gown. No more complaints about being bored. No more violin screeching at 4 in the morning.

No more blue eyes, like space itself was exploding inside them. No more Lips whispering his name. No more arms brushing. No more chasing criminals.

No more Sherlock Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: So this is another short but important chapter. I needed to keep this chapter and the fifth chapter separate otherwise the story would have gone to quickly. Here's the big OMG Chapter if you like. Its the chapter where everything goes down. I'm planning on this story being arund 10 chapters because I don't really want to draw it out and make it endless nothingness if you see what I mean. I'll sort out the chapters and stuff once I've finished writing it all up.**

**Also, I was going to upload this later on in the week but didn't want to keep you in suspense. This chapter has a cliffhanger as well but OH WELL. I don't know how long it will be before the seventh chapter is up as I have so much schoolwork to do at the moment and need to type it up and send a copy to my friend Rhianna to proof read.**

**Without further ado here is Chapter Six of The Baker Street Tragedy. **Reviews would be absolutely lovely. **  
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**-Erin**

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><p><em>7 months have passed since I lost you but still my heart aches. <em>

John slowly dropped the note onto Sherlock's grave, a tear dripping down his nose.

Back at Baker Street John sat in Sherlock's armchair, wearing the detectives old coat over the top of his jumper. The coat still smelt of Sherlock. John sighed, breathing in the scent deeply, picking up the newspaper. He didn't know why he read it anymore. All it ever did was make him angry and upset. Every now and again they would slip in sly remarks about Sherlock's death. Those sorts of thing would cause John's eyes to fill with tears. He would then rip up the newspaper and shove it in the bin.

Today however there were no remarks about Sherlock in there so he could read it in peace, drinking his tea. He sat in the chair for most of the morning before finishing his tea and deciding to make food for himself, something Sherlock had often forgotten to do. He switched on the oven and pulled a random assortment of edible food from the fridge. He then grabbed a couple of eggs and switched the frying pan on, filling it with oil. There was nothing like a good fried egg to lift his spirits, well except from a pale and mysterious detective. But that would never happen.

Suddenly John felt his knees shake. His legs buckled underneath him and he fell to the floor, smashing the eggs against the cold tiles. Spots flashed across his eyes as he fell backwards knocking his head on the floor. His vision faded to blackness. He felt a sizzle against his arm. The oil.

Then he lost himself into the blackness.

When he regained his consciousness he could smell smoke. It crept down his throat suffocating him. Coughing and retching he pulled himself onto his hands and knees, peeling his watering eyes open. He wished he had kept them closed. All he could see was the grey of the smoke and the orangey-yellow flames, rising in a huge column of fire in front of him. All he could feel was the heat pressing against him, smothering him. He tried to move but bashed into the table, slipping to the floor again. He couldn't see anymore, there was too much smoke. He could barely feel his body.

He was going to die.

His brain accepted this. His body however continued to fight. He scrambled backwards again, missing the table leg this time. John crawled as fast as he could, completely blind, coughing and choking on the smoke. He felt his own armchair and clung onto it, knowing he had reached the living room. If he could just reach the door.

Just a bit further.

But his body wasn't responding. He fell to the ground, coughing and hacking, screaming silently. I'm dying. I'm dying. **I'm dying**.

He curled up and felt the flames creep closer to him. It would be over soon, he reassured himself. Soon he'd be with Sherlock. Soon.

He found himself praying for the end to come, to be free of the pain. So he could be with Sherlock.

He took one last raspy breath. _I love you Sherlock Holmes._

He felt himself slipping away, fading into the blackness. Then he heard the voice he would literally die to hear yelling his name. He smiled slightly. _I'm on my way Sherlock. I'll be with you soon, _washis last thought before the darkness overcame him.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Hello my beauties:)Thanks so much to all the people that reviewed and to those that haven't- Y U N REVIEW? **

**I'm just joking with you. Anyway this chapter is my longest one yet *pats self on back* which I am very pleased about, its over 1000 words. That might not be long for some people but generally on other fanfictions I did on other sites I only wrote around 400 words a chapter. Its quite a big step up. **

**I thought I's spare you all from another cliffhanger-esque finish so this one finishes rather fluffily if I do say so myself.**

**Also could I just add that you should all check out JumpersAndKittens profile. I know her as Rhianna and she is the beautiful human being who has been pointing out and correcting some of my frankly, horrendous grammatical errors. **

**Now I will stop rambling and allow you to read the story.**

**-Erin :3**

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><p>John woke in a white room; it was sterile and unfamiliar, with no personal touches. It dredged up memories of his time recovering in hospital and he hated it. He closed his eyes, trying to push the thoughts away when he became aware of a pressure on his hand and the sound of someone else breathing.<p>

Hoping desperately, John slowly opened his eyes to find none other that Sherlock Holmes staring back at him. Sherlock sighed softly, meeting eyes with John. All they could focus on was each other.

Sherlock marvelled at the just seeing the doctor's face properly for the first time in seven months. All he had been able to do was catch glimpses of his back every now and again, or see the top of his blond head. Sherlock squeezed John's hand lightly, causing John to look startled then break into a beautiful grin.

Sherlock's heart nearly broke.

Then John began to laugh, almost demonically, cackling and nearly crying. Then he was crying and Sherlock didn't know what to do. John was just happy. He was with Sherlock at last, he could watch the detective breathe, stare into his eyes and gaze longingly at the raven-haired man's skinnier than ever frame. He didn't care about anything else. Except, he was dead. That was when the tears had spilled over onto his cheeks. Harry, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. All the people he never said goodbye to.

"John." Sherlock said, gently rubbing comforting circles into the back of John's hand. The army doctor's heart quivered nervously, butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." John replied, tightening his grip on Sherlock's hand. Suddenly John spontaneously threw himself onto Sherlock, wrapping his arms securely around the detective's waist. Sherlock was surprised but glad at how well John was taking the idea that he had survived his jump from the roof of St. Barts. The taller man buried his face into John's hair, inhaling the scent of budget shampoo and tea. To Sherlock it smelt like heaven. John was making the most of being this close to his Sherlock and grabbed a handful of Sherlock's shirt, bunching the material in his clenched fists. John pushed his face against Sherlock's chest, placing his ear right against the detective so that he could hear the steady thump-thump of his heart.

"I love you, Sherlock." John mumbled into his chest.

"Pardon?"

"I Love You." The army doctor said, rising his head, flushing with embarrassment. For once Sherlock was stunned into silence. He ran his hand through his tangled hair, exhaling slowly through his nose. He was so shocked.

He loved John obviously but he had never even entertained the idea that John could love him back. It was preposterous, highly unlikely but here John was, admitting his true feelings for Sherlock. The taller man was about to reply when John opened his mouth.

"Its okay, Sherlock. I'm not embarrassed. I know this is just a dream."

Sherlock was instantly snapped out of his trance by John's ridiculous idea. He looked down, meeting the shorter mans eyes.

"Pardon?" he repeated, for the second time in their short conversation.

"I'm dreaming, aren't I Sherlock?"

"Do explain."

John sighed at Sherlock's naivety. Clearly his imagination was making a very real and solid copy of Sherlock for him to talk to. He was so life-like. If it weren't for the fact that he knew he was dead, he would definitely have thought the detective was real.

"Or I'm dead." Sherlock's mouth dropped at what John was saying. The shorter man, on seeing his best friend's confusion, decided to elaborate.

"Well, the fire killed me, or nearly killed me because if I'm not dead I'm in some sort of dream state between being dead. I know that you're dead so that leads me to the conclusion that I'm dead also."

"Oh, John." Sherlock whispered, covering his face with his hands.

"Its okay, Sherlock." John replied earnestly, hugging Sherlock's slim waist again, "I'm with you and that's all I have wanted for the past 7 months."

Sherlock groaned slightly, feeling a horrendous guilt wash through him. He had known how upset John had been when he 'died' but he never imagined for one second that John would wish for death, just to be with him.

"John, look at me." Sherlock ordered, meeting the doctor's eyes. "You are not dead and neither am I. I survived the fall from St. Bart's roof due to a complicated scheme that I had earlier perfected. I had to kill all of Moriarty's hit men. They were going to shoot you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. I had to let them all believe I was dead otherwise they would have killed you. I didn't want to leave you John; it was so difficult to stay away. Everyday I convinced myself to stay away, saying it would hurt you more if I came back. Then I saw the fire and I ran into the house. I got you out of the house, John. I saved you. You are alive and so am I."

John stared at Sherlock, enthralled, listening with rapt attention to his story and finally understanding why Sherlock had killed himself. He loved him even more for that. Then Sherlock added four words that warmed him to the very core.

"I love you, John."

To Sherlock, who had never admitted that he loved anyone, it was like lifting a huge weight off his chest. John's voice cracked, a tear dripping down his face as he replied with, "I love you too, Sherlock."

The taller man felt his insides squirm with happiness. Even though John had admitted it earlier, somehow it felt more special now, now that they both loved each other equally.

"Do you believe me, John?"

"About what?"

"Not being dead."

"No, of course I don't."

"Why not?"

"Because this is too perfect. You loving me, its unnatural, you're brilliant and I'm average. You are a genius and I'm just a normal human. I'm John, just John. You're the great Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world."

Sherlock stared down at John and felt a tear drip down his long nose as he processed what John was saying. Then he crashed his lips to Johns, their tears mingling, dripping into one another's mouths. Sherlock could feel John's lips, rough and chapped from where he'd been biting them. John could taste the cheap coffee on Sherlock's perfect lips and could feel the detective's breath on his cheek.

As quickly as it had begun Sherlock pulled away, eyes sparkling with delight. John's face lit up in a smile and he began to felt aches all over his body. Pain that he had been ignoring because of the crazy notion that he was dead. He felt stiffness across his back and his throat felt like sandpaper. He didn't care. He was with Sherlock and that was all that matters.

"I'm alive aren't I?" John stated, simply.

"Yes, John." Sherlock replied, "You are."


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: This chapter is basically about their relationship and how they both feel about each other. **

**I updated sooner than I thought I would've though which is a good thing! **

**-Erin:)**

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><p>Once John had finally decided he was alive, things got a lot better.<p>

He had been admitted to hospital with minor burns and serious breathing problems. After a few days of rest and relaxation the doctors at the hospital decided that John could return home as long as he kept rested and came for a check up every weekend. Sherlock assured the hospital staff that he would look after John and that was how the ex-army doctor found himself sitting in Mrs Hudson's flat only a week after the fire.

The damage to the flat had been mostly confined to the kitchen, much to Sherlock's annoyance. The majority of his scientific equipment were destroyed past repair and his violin had few blackened specks.

During John's hospitalised week Mycroft had specifically arranged for 221B to be refurbished by the best in the business. His specialist team had predicted that they would be finished in three weeks.

So for the time being John and Sherlock stayed with Mrs Hudson.

They were forced, not that either of them was complaining, to share a bedroom due to the lack of space in Mrs Hudson's flat. Other than sleeping in the same bed and the kiss in the hospital neither of the men had done anything to further their relationship. John hadn't wanted to pressure Sherlock into moving too quickly and every now and again he still had moments where he thought it had all been a dream. When he had one of those moments he would do one of two things:

1: Go out to the pub and get drunk so that he could forget. Sometimes that was all John wanted, to forget.

2: Go find Sherlock and hold him tightly, vowing to never let go.

The latter option had happened many more times than the former so the detective was now well used to holding John and protecting him from his demon. The only demon John had were the memories of Afghanistan and the seven months he spent alone.

Sherlock was John's demon.

That was why Sherlock hadn't done anything about their relationship. He loved the doctor, that much was obvious. Whenever John was away or he was on a particularly boring/ long case he would often find himself pining for the warm, solid feel of his very favourite blogger. However, as much as he craved John's company, more so than he had ever craved drugs, he was honestly frightened by the power he could wield over his best friend. Just seven months apart and John had been wishing for death, just to be with him. Sherlock had considered many times that it would be better for John to get over him and go after somebody else, someone more reliable. Someone like himself.

The selfish side of Sherlock quickly dispelled these sorts of thoughts. He remembered with shivers of sadness the lonely evenings in Mycroft's mansion house, plucking away tunelessly at the strings of a stranger's violin. Wishing that he could be back at Baker Street, laughing with John and chasing criminals through the heart of London. Of course, he still got to chase criminals but it was completely different without John by his side.

Even before he found out John loved him back he would imagine them holding hands or John kissing him on the tip of the nose. It was those things that almost caused Sherlock to break. On many occasions he nearly revealed himself to John but was always stopped, either by his own logic or by Mycroft and his men.

One particularly bad night, when he had been struck with longing that caused him physical pain, he snuck out of the house and managed to purchase some drugs. He took them in the confinement of a disused factory and managed to forget for a few precious hours the pain he was in.

Once Mycroft had found out about his little lapse in control he made sure that his younger brother was always with some of his men. It was all rather tedious but Sherlock was thankful to his brother, though he would never tell him, for had he got back into the habit he knew he wouldn't have been able to stop.

John was completely unaware of Sherlock's close call with the drugs and the detective was determined to keep it that way. He thought that if John knew what had happened he would hate him. It was an irrational fear, John had always supported him, but nonetheless it planted itself firmly into Sherlock's head and not even flawless logic could get the fear to budge.

So John didn't want to push Sherlock into anything and Sherlock didn't want to hurt John more than he already had.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Hello all:D **

**Basically this chapter is quite lovely I think:)**

**Just kissing and embarrasment and whatnot.**

**Anyway, I just want to say Thanks again for all the kind reviews and the favourites/alerts of this story. So from the bottom of my heart... THANKS! :D**

**-Erin xx**

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><p>A loud bang caused John to sit up suddenly, gasping for breath. He had just been woken from a very vivid and lovely dream where he and Sherlock had been having a picnic in the nearby park. He turned to the side to see the spare half of an empty bed. Sherlock was already up. The ex-army doctor rolled out of the bed, pulling on some clean boxers before the door swung open and Sherlock strolled into the room. John let out a rather girlish scream and inwardly cursed his flatmate. Sherlock at least had the good grace to look embarrassed but didn't hesitate to sweep his eyes up and down over John's form before coughing politely and walking back out, pulling the door shut behind him. From behind the wooden door Sherlock shouted "221B is now back to normal." John heard the surprisingly light footfalls of the detective heading back up the stairs and was left to mull over his own thoughts.<p>

Half an hour later the shorter man stepped into 221B to find everything looking almost the same as it had before the fire. The only difference was the age of the kitchen furniture, everything else looked absolutely perfect. John made a mental note to thank Mycroft later on behalf of himself and Sherlock. The younger Holmes brother was currently examining something under a new microscope that sat, gleaming proudly, on the new kitchen table.

John wandered over to his chair that still smelt faintly of smoke. He shivered involuntarily, remembering the tall flames that threw their heat on him and the feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he was going to die. He was drawn out of his memory by a hand comfortingly squeezing his shoulder and a baritone voice saying "Everything is okay now, John."

The shorter man opened his eyes and looked up at the detective, relaxing at the warmth on his shoulder. Sherlock locked eyes with John and on impulse leant down and kissed the tip of the bloggers nose. A light blush spread across John's cheeks as he felt the pressure on his nose. He tilted his head upwards slightly and captured Sherlock's lips in his. They stayed like that for a moment, both staring at each other, lips pressed together. John slowly shut his eyes and exhaled through his nose. The cold blast of air caused Sherlock to open his mouth with a gasp, giving John more freedom to move his lips hesitantly against the detectives. Tentatively the shorter man slid his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and the raven haired man shuddered slightly and pulled John to his feet. They moulded together and John's arms ran up and down Sherlock's back, feeling the rock solid muscles through the tightly fitting shirt. Sherlock's eyes were still wide open in shock as he tried to process what was going on and how the situation had got to this. When he felt John's warm hands on the small of his back he gave an involuntary moan and placed his hands on the top of John's hips.

They stayed like that for at least another ten minutes.

John and Sherlock were so caught up in themselves that they didn't hear the light tap on the door and were walked in on by Anderson, Donovan, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. As soon as Anderson saw the two of them he began to laugh spitefully which was the first thing that told the kissing flatmates that they weren't alone in the room. They broke apart and awkwardly turned away from each other, John's faced turned beetroot red as he stepped away from Sherlock, arms straight at his sides, like he was fighting again. Sherlock, sensing John's uneasiness, asked if anybody wanted any tea. Lestrade and Mr Hudson both asked for a cup so John hurried off into the kitchen to make the drinks, trying desperately to get rid of the stubborn blush that wouldn't leave his cheeks. By the time he had walked back into the living room Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were sat down on the sofa and Sherlock was pacing around, a brown envelope held tightly in his hands. Anderson and Donovan were hanging around, chuckling with each other under their breath. It didn't take Sherlock to know what they were laughing about. John silently handed over the tea and slumped back down into his chair. They slipped into an awkward silence when suddenly Donovan laughed out loud, breaking the stillness. Sherlock turned to the woman, a strange glint in his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, "Donovan, if you don't stop laughing I will kick you out of this flat and sew your mouth shut seen as though you have no good use for it." The dark haired woman squared her shoulders and met Sherlock's eyes. "Though perhaps Anderson might not think your mouth is completely useless." He finished, smirking at his last sentence.

Mrs Hudson choked slightly on her tea exclaiming, "Sherlock! You shouldn't say things like that. I don't need to hear things like that at this stage of my life." Donovan stalked out of the flat, closely followed by Anderson who shot Sherlock an evil glare as he stormed out.

The detective turned and smirked at John before throwing the case file back to Lestrade. "It was the jealous husband." He said, picking up his violin and plucking at the strings, settling into his chair. John inexplicably found himself smiling at Sherlock's childlike behaviour and realised that the only person who really made a fuss about the kiss was him. He relaxed into the chair, listening to Sherlock play a beautiful melody on the violin and felt completely safe and secure.


	10. Chapter 10

_**AN: Hello everybody:) I'm so so so sorry I haven't updated in a a while. I have been super busy with stuff. For example the Amp Awards, which were great, but I had to put in so much effort it is unreal. I won an iPhone 4s and had an amazing night though, so it was aaaallll worth it! **_

_**Anyway, I should stop prattling on now so enjoy this chapter. **_

_**-Erin**_

_**P.S Shit goes down in the chapter... :o**_

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><p>John and Sherlock officially started 'going out' a week later.<p>

Mrs Hudson was extremely happy.

Lestrade said "Finally." when he was told the news.

Molly tried to smile and be happy for them but Sherlock noticed a touch of sadness in her eyes as she congratulated John.

Anderson and Donovan were always sniggering like five year olds but Sherlock and John didn't really care.

They were happy. Truly completely happy. The sort of happiness that filled you like sunlight and made you want to sing. John found himself smiling at random moments just because he was finally with the man he loved. They both realised that it was worth the wait. Every kiss, every touch, every kind word was so much better when they had both been longing for this sort of thing for months. Sherlock had been starved of affection his whole life and so finding someone that loved him as unconditionally as John did made him feel better than he ever had in his whole life. It made him feel normal. But in a good way.

So normal in fact that most days he actually bought milk.

John was sat in his chair, intently studying the newspaper, skipping the football section but focusing on the crime part. A double murder, a couple of suicides and one captured criminal. John could almost picture Sherlock stating how 'boring' they were. But Sherlock was out getting some case files from Lestrade so John could relax in the flat without the detective fussing over him. As much as John loved Sherlock he hated to be fussed over which was one of the reasons he joined the army. Rather than constantly getting asked if you were okay, over there it was more like get up, there is nothing wrong with you. John found that the jump from army to living with Sherlock quite easy. Well until now that is.

Sherlock started worrying over John because he started collapsing again.

The blogger could see why Sherlock was so concerned but to him it was quite unnerving to see Sherlock caring about anyone, least of all him, but he supposed he would get used to it. This sudden 'being looked after' thing left John feeling a bit irritated. However he went along with it because he knew if the situation were reversed he would be constantly worrying over his boyfriend.

The door swung open and John looked up to see a soaking wet Sherlock enter the room. The blond man smirked and said, "I said you should have taken an umbrella."

Moments later he felt a soggy coat land on him, covering his face and soaking the newspaper. He pulled the coat off himself, feeling grumpy at being all wet, expecting Sherlock to be stood by the door. So when John finally got his vision back he was surprised to see Sherlock standing 2 feet away from him, breathing deeply, chest straining the purple material.

"Sherlock?" John said, confused, only to be silenced by a wave of Sherlock's hand. The detective had a strange look in his eyes but it was one John recognised. He was thinking deeply about something that required his complete attention. The shorter man stood up, picking up the sodden coat and went to drape it over a radiator when a hand grabbed his wrist and trapped it in a vice-like grip. John turned to see Sherlock staring into his eyes looking frantic.

"Sherlock?" He asked again, genuinely worried about his best friend.

"Tell me everything you have eaten or drunk in the past 2 days." Sherlock said, snapping out of his trance.

"I don't get it-"

"Tell me!" Sherlock half yelled, pulling John towards him, gaze frantically searching his face, "Tell me." He whispered.

"Yesterday I had bacon for breakfast, I had a chicken and salad sandwich for lunch and lamb stew for dinner. I had some jam on toast for breakfast this morning and had beans for lunch."

"Drink, what did you drink?" Sherlock said, desperately.

"Um.. Tea, beer and water… Why?"

Sherlock let go of John's wrist, walking into the kitchen, grabbing things from cupboards and placing things under his microscope. His thoughts were racing, like a train barrelling through a station, completely uncontrollable. All he could do was try to hold on and follow the brief flashes that were scattering across his mind. John. Eating. Drinking. Poison, no not poison. A problem. An experiment. Water, no too common. Beer, too common again. Tea, everybody drinks tea. But people drink it in different ways. Tea. Components of tea. Tea bag. Unlikely to be the problem. Milk, again unlikely. Water, already ruled out. Sugar. Wait, Sugar. The experiment, the experiment with sugar.

"What sugar do you use?" Sherlock spurted, turning to face John, eyes flickering widely around the room. The shorter man walked over to a cupboard and pulled out a small plastic container full of sugar cubes.

Sherlock recognised them immediately. They were the ones he used for the experiment. Slowly he picked one up, cradling it between his fingers before slamming it down onto the table. He picked up a few of the scattered grains and examined them under the microscope. That was when it all pieced itself together.

It was the sugar making John faint.

It was the sugar that made John collapse.

It was Sherlock's sugar that was hurting John. It was exactly what he had been afraid of. Then suddenly a thought struck him. If John had been taking the sugar then maybe it wasn't true. The whole purpose of the sugar was to make John talk about his deepest feelings; perhaps the sugar took what he thought he was feeling.

John might not be in love with me. The sugar hurt him, my sugar hurt him.

Those are the only thoughts that fill his head and then wham, like a train barrelling into him Sherlock realised that it was him that nearly killed John too.

If John hadn't collapsed there never would have been a fire and John wouldn't have nearly died.

"Sherlock?" John repeated, touching his friends arm lightly. Sherlock, looked up, like a rabbit caught in the headlights and met John's kind, warm eyes. Safe John, lovely John. Sherlock nearly threw himself into John's arms, begging to be forgiven, hoping John would still love him. His body however had other ideas and he sprinted out of the flat into the wet, rainy London night, hating himself for what he had done.

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><p>(insert Eastenders credit music here..)<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Hello my dralings:) I'm so very sorry that this update is so late. I haven't really been on the laptop much recently because of school and revison and auditions for the school play. (oh, and the laptop can't go ten minutes without freezing *sigh*) **

**Anyway, this is the second last chapter, the last proper one. The final one will just be a little epilogue, tying up loose ends and such.**

**I just want to say that it has been amazing writing this, I've had so much fun and I don't really want this to end. However I didn't want this to turn into one of those fanfictions where they go on randomly and endlessly, getting rubbisher and rubbisher.. (is that even a word?)**

**As I was saying, it has been really awesome and I have loved every minute of working on this fanfiction:)**

**Don't worry, I will be back with more Johnlock for certain and I've been experimenting with some MorMor, perhaps a Mystrade is around the corner. I would also like to take this opportunity to thanks each and every one of you who put this story on your favourites/alerts and reviwed. My thanks are too big enugh to be expressed in words, just imagine they are the same size as Mycroft's love for cake. **

**If you enjoyed this story I would recommend checking out my Johnlock Ficlets. (shock horror, most of them are Johnlock!;o)**

**Now I'm babbling... **

**So thankyou, thankyou, thankyou and enjoy the penultimate chapter of 'The Baker Street Tragedy'.**

**(P.S. Sorry it's kinda short.)**

**Love you all, virtual hugs! -Erin:D xx**

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><p>It took John half a second to make his decision: follow Sherlock or stay here. Choosing the former option, he ran out of the flat, trying desperately to figure out where his boyfriend could have gone. He turned his head sharply and thought he saw the flap of a coat disappear round the corner. <em>Sherlock<em>. The ex-army doctor sprinted as fast as he could, feet slamming against the tarmac, little splashes of water drenching the bottom of his jeans. He skidded round the corner, slipping on the wet pavement and caught sight of the dark haired man charging down the street and skittering into a side alley. John pushed himself to run faster and frantically began yelling Sherlock's name. This area was all too familiar but he hadn't been here before had he?

Then he remembered that he had been here before, if not physically then mentally at least. This was one of the locations of one of his most frequent nightmares. He would be running down this road, screaming after Sherlock to stop, to come back and finally the dark haired man would turn but it would be too late. The detective would smile at John and then throw himself backwards over the edge of the street landing on the floor some 10 metres below. John would reach the edge and see the broken and bloody body of the great Sherlock Holmes lying on the ground.

That would be how the dream would end. The ex-army doctor would wake up crying and yelling, thrashing around in his bed to reach Sherlock. Only this time it wasn't a dream. This time he really was here in the god forsaken place and Sherlock wasn't going to die. Was he? Suddenly John's grasp on reality began to slip and his head started pounding. Sherlock is alive. Sherlock is alive. Sherlock is alive. He repeated to himself, sorting out his reality.

All the time he was nearly breaking down he hadn't stopped running and he hadn't stopped yelling. His screams were hoarser now and the rain dripped down his face, mixing with the tears that he couldn't feel but could tell were there. John saw the dark haired man lurch to a stop and turn towards John. Sherlock stood stock still, unsure whether to run towards John or to run away from him. The detective had stood still for too long because suddenly and without warning John had thrown himself at Sherlock. The shorter man wrapped his arms around his flatmate's skinny waist and buried his face into Sherlock's neck, begging him not to do that again. They both realised how cold it actually was as they began shaking from a combination of fear and a drop in body temperature.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock said, desperately pulling away from his blond haired boyfriend and pacing around in the confined space.

"It's okay, I think I overreac-"

"No. I'm sorry for what I've done to you. Not just now, but it can be included. It's my fault. All of it! It was my sugar that was hurting you John! It was an experiment but it went wrong. It went completely wrong. You don't really love me either. It's all part of the experiment." And with that the broken detective sank to the cold, wet ground, face being clawed at by his pale hands.

John felt like he couldn't breathe. The shock hit him like a physical impact. He nearly died because of Sherlock. Twice. Once after Sherlock died (though that was more in a mental sense) and during the fire.

You always knew he was dangerous. A nagging voice in the back of John's head told him. It was true, Sherlock had promised danger and he had come running. He was sure that Sherlock didn't want to kill him. A horrible thought passed through his mind. If Sherlock had wanted him dead he would be already. He shook the thought away, pushing it out of his confused brain.

I love him. I bloody love him. I don't care what his experiment was, I love Sherlock bloody Holmes and I will tell him that.

John crouched down on his knees and prised Sherlock's hands away from his face. The detective looked at John with eyes that screamed help me. John had never seen Sherlock look anymore vulnerable or _human_ than he did right now. Gently, John leant forward and kissed Sherlock's quivering lips.

"I don't care what your experiment was. I love you Sherlock, you crazy madman and I've known it for a long time now. I just didn't want to believe it."

John pressed his lips against Sherlock's again, running his hands through the detective's dark, tangled curls. They broke apart and John pulled Sherlock to his feet.

"Come on, Sherlock. Let's get home before you freeze to death." He said, taking Sherlock's hand and vowing to himself that he would never let go.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Here it is my darlings. The final chapter of 'The Baker Street Tragedy'. **

**This chapter almost didn't get written because my laptop totally messed up and deleted the whole thing... which was... fun.. :L**

**but I re-typed it up at two in the morning the other day and now it shall be posted.**

**I love you all, I love you each and I really really cannot express in words how pleased I was with the reviews/favourites/alerts. :D**

**This was my first proper Johnlock fanfiction so thankyou to each and every one of you for reading it.**

**Love, Erin:) xxx**

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><p><em>Epilogue:<em>

John never did let go.

Obviously he had to let go of his partner's hand a lot of the time but in his mind he was still connected to Sherlock. Every now and again they'd meet eyes, maybe over a dead body (how romantic) and John would feel happiness swell through his whole being. It was these moments of perfection that got John through. Knowing that after a long, tiring day at the clinic he could come home and find his perfect Sherlock waiting for him made John feel like a teenager in love again. He was half of that, his love for Sherlock was something he was sure of.

They still argued though. How could John not get annoyed when Sherlock kept storing toes in breadbins or forgetting about experiments that dripped and burnt holes in tables, jumpers and once a laptop. John's laptop. Mrs Hudson still said that they argued less than her friend's 'married ones.'

Little did Mrs Hudson know that she was about to have her own married ones.

Sherlock Holmes proposed to John Hamish Watson in 221B Baker Street on the 15th January 2014. John Watson had eagerly accepted and soon found a ring slipping comfortably onto his finger.

The couple got married on the 21st February 2015. Mrs Watson swore that she didn't cry but Harry assured John after the ceremony that their mother was bawling from the beginning. She wasn't the only one. Sherlock noted the tears dripping own Mrs Hudson's cheeks as she pulled him into a tight hug, wrapping her frail arms around his skinny waist. Also, Sherlock saw well hidden tears gleaming in Molly's eyes as she hugged him lightly, flicking her hair nervously. Lestrade had shook Sherlock's hand, smiling proudly at him and announcing that the sociopath and his blogger had finally 'got hitched'. John just laughed and wrapped his arm tightly around his husband's waist, punching Lestrade lightly in the arm. Even Anderson and Donovan turned up to congratulate the happy couple.

On the 23rd November 2015 John suggested that they adopted a child. He was overjoyed when an enthusiastic Sherlock agreed, insisting that he had baby names all picked out.

June 4th 2016 brought them their beautiful baby boy, Hamish Mycroft Watson-Holmes. The two men had rushed to the hospital as quickly as they could and as Sherlock cradled his child to his chest he began to leak proud, happy tears. John had only ever seen Sherlock cry once before.

Hamish uttered his first words on the 27th May 2017. John had just been cooking dinner for himself and Sherlock, who was at this moment being harassed about a case. "Anderson, will you please shut up you idiot!" Sherlock yelled, storming into the kitchen. "Idiot!" Hamish had screeched, quoting his father's favourite insult. John had spun, eyes wide with emotion as the whole room erupted with laughter. Hamish began giggling to himself and repeated the word over and over again, filling John with a cross between anger and pride. Sherlock had the good sense to duck his head in shame, press a kiss to John's cheek and whisper a muffled sorry into his ear.

A few months after Hamish turned two John brought up the idea of adopting another child. Somebody that Hamish could play with when John was at the surgery and Sherlock was working on cases. Sherlock initially disagreed but after some persuasion agreed on the 19th August 2018.

Lealia Harriet Watson-Holmes was born on the 22nd December 2018 and was granted her unusual name by Sherlock. He insisted upon the name stating that it had French origins meaning loyal. John thought the name was beautiful just like their dark haired daughter.

Lealia and Hamish grew up to be talented, independent and likeable children. Lealia had mastered the violin and piano by the age of twelve and Hamish was hoping to get a career in medicine.

Sherlock and John were perfectly content. They had beautiful children, a lovely home, supportive friends and family and most importantly, they had each other.

So why would John need, or want to ever let go?


End file.
